


Push and Pull (Fertile Ground Remix)

by Shellepink



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Exploration of life as Saarebas, Gen, OC backstory, Par Vollen, Pre-Canon, Qunari Culture and Customs, Saarebas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 04:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shellepink/pseuds/Shellepink
Summary: It is difficult to live as Saarebas, and the pain of it presses down and down until finally something bursts.Remix for the DA Remix event over on tumblr, and a remix of the fic Fertile Ground, by ChocoChipBiscuit.





	Push and Pull (Fertile Ground Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fertile Ground](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3930145) by [ChocoChipBiscuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit). 



> Another story for my Inquisition agent OC, Saara! The tumblr version of this story is [here.](https://lavalampelfchild.tumblr.com/post/164305202409/push-and-pull-da-remix)
> 
> And go give ChocoChipBiscuit's fic (a part of a larger series focusing on her Adaar Inquisition, Neasa Adaar) a read! It's absolutely beautiful in its narration and the presentation of Qunari life (and why some might wish to leave it).

 

She was told they expected that she would become Saarebas.  Those who had given birth to her had done so illegally, their union not sanctioned by the Tamassran.  One had been Saarebas, the other, Karasaad.  Karasaad had been reeducated.  Saarebas had been executed. 

She did not know why she had been allowed to live. 

Her number was 246-0078314-0.  She was never called that.  When her superiors required her talents, she was called ‘Saarebas.’    

She was young when her powers had been discovered.  There had been older Qunari watching her.  She had been told not to speak to them.  They had always suspected she would show signs, they said, and thus they watched. 

Her first spell had been an accidental summoning.  A light, small and bright, had appeared and bounced around above her cupped hands.  She had watched in stunned silence, a flood of warmth filling her body as the light danced for her. 

That was when the older Qunari had grabbed her, and the light disappeared.  She was told later that it had been a demon, and that she had summoned it. 

She was told later still that it was not a demon, but was instead a harmless spirit.  She still wasn’t quite sure whom she believed.

That had been her first taste of magic.

* * *

They began to teach her immediately after her magic was discovered. 

She had always been isolated growing up, always kept from others her age, though there was always at least one other older attendant with her. 

Today that changed. 

She awoke before dawn as she had been trained, and when she pushed herself up to her feet, there stood two warriors waiting for her.  At that moment, she did not know that they were Arvaarad.  That would come later.

“Come.  Now,” one commanded.  She obeyed wordlessly, moving toward them without hesitation.  She stopped, no less than five paces between them, as she had been taught. 

_“Keep your distance, but don’t go so far that no one can reach you.”_

“Saarebas, to me,” the other one ordered.  And then they began to walk.  She followed, never having heard the term ‘Saarebas’ before, but knowing somehow that it referred to her.

They covered her face once they were outside, and led her forward by a hand on her shoulder.

_“It is for you to learn to rely on them, Imekari, that you will never think to move without first seeking their guidance.”_

Saarebas counted as she was moved, practiced her breathing.  She only stumbled once, and her escorts silently corrected her without a hitch.  She almost wished they would speak, even to berate her.  There seemed to be no sounds but their footsteps on the uneven ground.

Finally, she felt one of them at her back, deftly removing the cover from her face.  She blinked and raised a hand to rub at her eyes. 

“Saarebas.” 

Saarebas paused and looked up at her escort. 

“Look.”

Saarebas looked.  Her jaw slackened. 

Ahead of them was a great ravine, wide around and long across.  At the bottom there looked to be a great body of water, rapid and rushing, white-capped and aggressive.  Saarebas watched in fascination for a moment before a controlled press against her shoulder drew her attention away.  She followed her escort’s gaze and caught sight of the platform, far above the ravine, isolated between the cliff edges, supported by a single pillar, narrower in the center, wider at the ends.

Leading to it, across the ravine, were two bridges, one on each side of the ravine’s cliff edges.  They were narrow.  They had no hand rails.  Saarebas could not tell how sturdy they were.

“Come.”

Saarebas hesitated.  A hand gripped her shoulder.

“ _Come._ ” 

She went.  They filed forward, one escort in front of her, one behind her.  The grip on her shoulder didn’t ease until her first escort had gone nearly halfway across.  When it loosened and pushed, she walked toward the bridge.

At first, she was scared.  She was high up, higher than she could ever remember being, and she could feel the strength of the wind all around her as she moved.  It could upset her balance so very easily, if she proved to be too careless.  Automatically, her body compensated where she felt the wind push.  The wind made her sway, and she made it sway right back. 

Halfway across the bridge she smiled to herself.

 _You test me,_ she thought.  _You seek to test my resolve, my strength._ Almost as if in answer, the wind whistled and pushed at her arm. 

“Eh!” she called to it, jerking her arm out, against the direction of the wind. 

_You won’t find me wanting._

“Saarebas!” 

Saarebas looked up, and the smile fell from her face.  Having finished crossing the bridge, her first escort stood on the platform, facing her, watching her intently with sharp eyes.  His hand was on his weapon. 

“Come.”

Saarebas bowed her head and continued walking.  But as soon as her head was lowered the smile returned.  Her escorts knew what she was doing, they had to.  This was their test.  They had to be firm with her, but she had succeeded in this, she knew.  She _knew_.

Once she had crossed, she waited silently by her first escort until the second finished the journey, and then she was taken to the center of the platform. 

She blinked, confused, as they stood and stood and nothing happened.  What was supposed to be done?  Did _she_ have to do something?  There were no others there aside from her and her escorts, and there seemed to be no place to go from the platform but to the other side of the ravine.  And that—

Her thoughts ground to a halt as several figures appeared on the other side of the ravine, coming through the trees of the forest that led to the great city that she had only heard tales about.  Her eyes widened.

She couldn’t quite make them out, but she caught the glisten of jewelry or armor of some kind, and her heart began to pound. 

They were here for her. 

The figures drew closer, and the pounding in her chest grew louder, at least to her own ears, and then they stopped before the bridge.  And that was when Saarebas was able to see them more clearly.  And she saw, the glisten wasn’t from jewelry; it was from chains.  The chains about one of the figure’s necks.

The chained one began to walk across the bridge, the one holding his chains following closely.  The others moved after. 

Saarebas’s own escorts stepped forward, weapons at the ready, between her and the chained one.

Once across, the one holding the chains faced her escorts.

“Saarebas is here to teach the child,” he said.  Her escort nodded.

“So it shall be,” he replied.  It sounded like the words to a ritual; invocation and response.

At that moment everyone seemed to be moving, and Saarebas watched in nervous confusion as her escorts separated and began to walk to either side of the platform.  Startled, she tried to follow them, unsure of which one she should follow until the one on the left turned and stopped her. 

“Stay.” 

Saarebas looked up at him and took several shaky steps back to the center of the platform.  Her escort paused and looked down at her.  He inclined his head.

“Do not fear, child.” 

_Imekari._

He turned and resumed his stride, and Saarebas tried to banish the fear from her mind.  _Imekari_.  That word somehow always carried with it more lightness than weight, and Saarebas did not know why.

When the movement stopped, all but she and the chained one stood by the edges of the platform, weapons still out, expressions impassive. 

Saarebas observed the chained one in silence, a slow churning in her gut getting louder and wilder the longer she looked. 

His arms were bound behind his back, the rope tight and painful-looking.  His wrists were cuffed together with some contraption Saarebas could not see well from where she stood.  The chain that had glistened in the sunlight was attached to an elaborate golden yoke about his neck that sat heavily against his shoulders.  He wore a mask over his eyes, and Saarebas could barely see through the elaborate metalwork. 

But the thing that frightened her the most, the thing that Saarebas could not stop looking at, was the chained one’s mouth. 

A long string, maybe a rope, criss-crossed morbidly across his mouth, from top lip to bottom and back again, over and over, ensuring that he could not move his lips, could not speak, and what purpose did that serve? 

The string glowed and Saarebas stared in open awe for as long as she dared.  The chained one didn’t move, didn’t make a sound as he endured her scrutiny. 

After several minutes of this silent observation, Saarebas became emboldened.  She remembered the wind, and the way it pushed, and wondered if this was another of her tests.  She would not be afraid.

Drawing herself up, Saarebas took one step forward, then another, eyes on the chained one. 

When she had gone three steps, he made a sound in his throat, a small whimper, and tried to shy away.  Her brow furrowed and she stopped. 

_Why…?_

She took another step, expecting to hear the same sound from him.  But it seemed he had mastered himself in that moment; nothing happened. 

She reached him and raised a hand to touch the collar around his neck.  She caught herself just in time, just as the one holding the chain yanked it hard and sent the chained one crashing to his knees. 

“Down!” he shouted.  The chained one looked to be frozen, but Saarebas was not afraid.  She knew she was supposed to overcome this.  This was another test. 

She kept moving forward, gently and slowly lifting her hand again.  She managed to place it on the chained one’s shoulder before he could move back any further.  She peered at him closely and sucked in a breath. 

Beneath his mask, he was crying.  Saarebas recognized the sight of tears.  Tracks, nearly invisible to her eye, dark against dark, ran down the chained one’s cheeks, and a spike of worry pierced something in Saarebas’s chest. 

Without thinking, she raised her hand to his face, awkwardly reaching over the collar, stroking and soothing as best she could.  As her caretaker had once done for her as a young child.

“Are you in pain?” she asked softly.

He did not respond.  No one said anything. 

Later, Saarebas would learn that they had allowed her to do this, allowed her to go to him, because they were waiting to see how he would respond to her.  Like animals, Saarebas and the chained one were thrown together to see if they would come to accept one another, or savagely attempt to kill each other. 

But in that moment, Saarebas knew nothing of the sort, and her eyes were only for the other, kneeling before her, submitting himself to the actions, the judgment of all those around him, even her. 

She hesitated, then left her hand where it was.

“It will be alright,” she said quietly. “This is a test.  I know it.  It will all be well.”

The chained one made a sound in his throat, an awful choking sound, like a twisted parody of a laugh, and his body jerked away from her.  He began to glow, and the cuffs began to rattle.  Saarebas gasped and jumped back.  The chains were jerked and the chained one was dragged to his feet as the one who held his chains rushed swiftly forward. 

“Saarebas, move away!” 

Saarebas blinked and began to move away, as instructed, but realized that the one who had spoken had not spoken to her.

“Imekari, to me!”

Someone grabbed her about her waist and pulled her up.  It was her escort, the one who had told her not to fear, but she wasn’t thinking about that.  Her eyes were wide as she watched the chained one shake and stumble, jerked about by the one holding his chains.  He had been the one told to move away. 

That was when it hit her.

They said that someone – _Saarebas_ – had been taken here to teach her – _Imekari_. 

 _He is Saarebas too._ He, Saarebas, was there to teach her, also Saarebas.  Saarebas to Saarebas.  And he was chained.  Silenced.  Saarebas’s eyes widened as she watched the chained one submit to his master.

That was to be her one day.  Perhaps one day soon.  She would be told to submit, made to submit, by a chain about her neck, and ropes about her arms.

The chained one – Saarebas – was brought back to his knees.  The one holding his chains – she did not know what he was called – held a rod at his back.  The rod was glowing, and so were the cuffs.  Saarebas shook.

There were supposed to be lessons.

There were no lessons.

She received the stitches to her mouth that very evening.  The next day she received a new teacher.

* * *

Being Saarebas was… many things. 

From her teachings and the constant reminders of her superiors, it was ‘evil.’  But from the manner in which she was employed in battle, used to fight the Bas Saarebas, she was only able to conclude that it was also ‘necessary,’ which she did not understand.  Her hands were bound, her mouth stitched shut, and every waking hour she was shadowed by her Arvaarad.  She was allowed no liberties because of the danger she posed.  Everything she had come to know about what she was had led her to believe that she would better serve the Qun if she were dead.  Yet none would allow her to die.

On the contrary, she was guarded almost religiously.  It had been thus for decades.  Since that first lesson on the platform when she was a child, and even before.

Her primary function was to serve the Qun in battle, fight insurgent Tal-Vashoth, and counter the magic of the bas nation Tevinter. 

She never questioned it.

Her Arvaarad was, she had heard, a warrior of great honor and skill.  Once before, he had had guardianship of another Saarebas, who had been killed in a skirmish with the Bas Saarebas of Tevinter.  He was proud of his skills, and had every right to be, and many young soldiers of the Berasaad looked up to him, as one who held great power – great evil – in check.

When she had met him, Saarebas had not been sure if it was confidence he possessed or arrogance.

She bowed anyway.  

He held the rod aloft and bid her to her knees.  Others stood beside him, looked down upon her in unreadable silence, their faces indistinguishable while they wore identical helmets.

“Saarebas,” Arvaarad spoke in a firm tone.  His voice was low and rough like gravel, and Saarebas shivered, thinking involuntarily of a faceless Qunari from her memories, with a voice like this one, who had led her to a raised platform, and told her not to fear.

“We are to be Karataam, and you are our charge.  As your kind must be, you are a blight on the world, and cannot be allowed to move unchecked.  But you can still serve the Qun, even with this curse.

“You will answer to us, and obey, and in your obedience, you will prove devotion to the Qun.”

Silence followed his words, and Saarebas went over those last words in her mind. 

 _Devotion to the Qun…_  Yes.  She wanted that.

“Now stand.”  The hold over her body lifted, disappeared, and she stood.  Her Arvaarad seemed to tower over her.  He bore the marks, the vitaar, of an honored one, and Saarebas felt a moment of envy.  Were she not a vile and dangerous thing, she could be allowed to earn such markings herself, even if not in battle.  His bindings proved his honor as well.  Saarebas’s bindings were for function, there was no honor in them.  Her arms were bound back, her horns bound symbolically together, everything about those ropes meant imprisonment.

Arvaarad held her gaze and something behind his eyes flashed.  Saarebas wanted to look away.

“Saarebas,” he greeted.

She said nothing and inclined her head.

* * *

She served with the Arvaarad and the Karataam for several years, and they traveled down to Seheron, where Saarebas was told to direct her cursed magic against the bas of Tevinter who constantly attempted to siege what belonged rightfully to the Qunari.  She was allowed to continue serving the Qun in the way she did best.

It was easy to stand in battle against the bas of Tevinter.  She learned their tricks through observation and turned them back against their Bas Saarebas.  Her skills grew as she fought and she became stronger and stronger the more battles she survived.

She became easy with her Karataam, or at least easier, and they with her.  As time passed, there passed fewer looks of distrust, of disdain, between them, and they came to rely on one another in the heat of battle, in the thick of a fight.  Many times, Saarebas had saved the life of one of her companions, only to have them turn around and return the favor come the next skirmish.

Perhaps it was that easiness and familiarity that caused Saarebas to miss the change in Arvaarad, in the looks he gave her every time she cast a powerful spell, and after every battle when they regrouped and Saarebas’s wrists were cuffed and her arms were bound.

It had been suspicion in his eyes, she knew that now.  But then, she was none the wiser to the distrust that crept onto his features – distrust and conflict, and no matter how much she thought on that, she was never able to comprehend it.  Sometimes she still wondered if the distrust had always been there, or if it had been new.

The final mistake was made south of Seheron, in the wild jungles that hid the true dangers of that land. 

A unit of the Antaam had been cut off from the Kithshok’s main camp, penned in by the Fog Warriors, and were unable to extract themselves to escape the jungle.  They had sent for reinforcements, and the Karataam had been the closest unit in the area. 

They reached the others within two days, and when they arrived, it was clear that the soldiers would not last more than another day or two without aid.  They had soldiers dead, soldiers wounded, and one soldier had deserted. 

The Sten of this company and Arvaarad had formulated a plan to help them all hold out until the other reinforcements arrived.  It was nothing entirely too inspired.  Ultimately, it amounted to, “stay together and don’t die.”

When dusk arrived, there was nothing Karataam could do but wait.  So they dug in and prepared themselves.

Then the fog rolled in, tendrils of thick choking death, and the Fog Warriors attacked.

The battle raged.  And though Saarebas and her fellow Qunari were pushing themselves well beyond their limits, chasing victory with all the madness of a starving man in the desert, they were slowly worn down by the methodical, patient, and unrelenting attacks of the Fog Warriors.  The fog never abated.

Sten’s unit fell easier and quicker thanks to their exhaustion, and the Karataam’s inexperience with Fog Warriors handicapped them.

Saarebas took a strike to the side and an arrow to the leg.  Her wounds tired her, and the constant use of magic drained her.  They were losing.

Soon, she found herself on her knees.  Arvaarad stood before her, breathing heavily, weapon clenched in his fists.  At least two of the Karataam were dead.  Sten’s unit was separated from them. 

They were alone.

Other shapes began to form in the fog, and Saarebas knew them to be the Fog Warriors.  A loud whistle sounded somewhere to her right.  Arvaarad swung his sword wildly in the direction of the sound.  He met with nothing but air and fog, and grunted as something hit him from behind, knocking him to the ground. 

Their enemies were toying with them now.

Arvaarad bellowed in anger as he scrambled to his feet, sword again at the ready.  Another shape came at him from behind.  Knocked him down again. 

Saarebas released a helpless whine as she watched the Fog Warriors get between the Karataam soldiers, distract them from one another.  Separation was what they wanted, it was how they defeated their enemies, they had to see this, had to stop it!

But what could she do!?  On the ground and helpless, with no energy left for her spells! 

No.  No, no, no.  She couldn’t surrender yet.  She closed her eyes and took in a breath.

_Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it._

She remembered the wind.

_I refuse._

It had pushed.

_I refuse to suffer this._

She had pushed back _._

A form was coming toward her, painted and wild, daggers in hand.  She couldn’t stand, not with the arrow still lodged in her leg, the wound still throbbing at her side.  Her vision was beginning to blur.  She raised her hand, pointed it toward the figure, and poured all the energy she had into one final spell. 

The warrior yelped as the cage closed around him, the bars of energy pinning him in place, locking his body into an unnatural grip.  Somewhere beyond her, Saarebas heard a shout of surprise, but she ignored it.  She watched the warrior shake in her spell’s hold.  She twisted her hand and slowly pulled her fingers in, formed a fist.  And then she ripped.

The warrior didn’t have time to scream. 

His body fell and Saarebas dropped her hand.  Her body sagged but she fought the lethargy and exhaustion.  A shadow fell over her.

“Saarebas…” Arvaarad called.  Saarebas’s head snapped up and she looked at him through the cage over her eyes. 

It was the first time she had ever heard him speak her name with anything other than authority or firm detachment.

He held her gaze for a moment.  She couldn’t read his features.  A barrier.  They needed a barrier. 

Trying to summon the last bit of strength she no longer had, Saarebas forced the energy of the beyond into a field of magic to surround them all.  It flickered and sputtered, and most likely wouldn’t repel even the simplest of spells or projectiles.  Saarebas’s eyes narrowed, and she felt the sting of oncoming tears. 

 _Come on!_     

“Saarebas.”

Arvaarad.  Saarebas raised her head.  Arvaarad looked down at her for a moment and nodded.  He raised his weapon.  Turned toward the fog.  Roared a battle cry, one he had not used before.

“Nehraa kadan!”

_Brothers, sisters, comrades, companions._

Arvaarad charged through the dying barrier.

 _No…_  

Saarebas collapsed.

* * *

They did not die.  They held the warriors off long enough for the other reinforcements to arrive.  The Fog Warriors had been pushed back.

Arvaarad survived. 

It almost would have been better if he had died in the battle.  Then at least Saarebas could have remembered him as honorable.

She didn’t find out that she had been reported until Arvaarad delivered her to the Viddasala. 

“This is the one who has been using blood magic?”

Something froze in Saarebas and an impossible weight settled in her stomach.  Blood magic?  No… That was vile stuff, truly evil, the unmistakable sign of a soul lost to demons, and they thought that she—

“Yes.” 

Her Arvaarad’s voice rang in her ears, and Saarebas could not stop herself from turning to face him, eyes wide.  She caught barely more than a glimpse of him before she was forced back around.

“Do not move without my leave, Saarebas.” 

The Viddasala’s face filled her vision and she bowed her head. 

“Arvaarad.  Speak.”

Saarebas could only look at the ground as her Arvaarad explained the spell that he had seen her use against the Fog Warriors.

But that hadn’t been blood magic.  That had simply been Saarebas.  She knew, she had felt the pull of the energy herself, had pushed when it pushed back, had sent it through, directed it at the Qun’s enemies.  There had been no blood.

But she couldn’t say that.  She couldn’t speak, not even to defend herself.

And in the end…

“This sounds like an exceptionally dangerous creature, Arvaarad.  You have done a service to the Qun in bringing her to me.  We will keep her here to determine her fate.”

Reeducation or execution.  Saarebas had an idea as to which one was more likely.

“You need not concern yourself with this matter any longer.  Dismissed.” 

Saarebas felt the urge to turn and face him so strongly that it physically hurt.  If only to see his face, to see if there was any sign there that he had not wanted—

But she was not allowed to move without the Viddasala’s leave.

No footsteps sounded.  Saarebas closed her eyes.

“ _Dismissed_ , Arvaarad.”

There was another pause and then the sound of footsteps echoed in the chamber.  For several moments, that was all there was, until they finally receded and the sound of a door closing followed. 

Saarebas was left alone with Viddasala. 

Her death would come soon.

* * *

Again, events did not transpire as she had expected. 

Saarebas sat waiting in a cell for weeks, starved and weak, knowing only that her execution was imminent.

She would have been surprised when Viddasala came to her one night, cloaked and hooded, had she the energy.

They took her from the compound where she was held, with her face covered, and when she was able to see again, Viddasala stood before her, expression cold, eyes colder.

“Saarebas, kneel.”

She knelt.

“From this point onward, I am Arvaarad to you.  You obey me and only me.  Disobey, and your life is forfeit.” 

There was no question of understanding, no waiting for Saarebas to acknowledge her new master; this was the way things would be, and if she failed to comply, she would be killed.

Saarebas lowered her head.

* * *

She never learned why Viddasala had kept her, but everything became worse afterward.  The ropes were never untied, the cuffs never unlatched, and instead of a mask that covered her eyes, Saarebas was made to wear one that covered the entirety of her face, grotesque and heavy as it pulled her head lower down, closer to the ground, a constant reminder that she was lesser, that she was no more than a thing, disgusting and dangerous and the antithesis of what they all said the Qun meant.

She did not know how long she had been in Viddasala’s service when she heard the rumors.  Four Qunari had defected.  They had booked passage with smugglers, and none had been able to find them.  It was quickly covered up, but not quickly enough; Saarebas was the slave to a spy.  And it was just as well.

It was this rumor that pushed her past the point of no return. 

She had to escape too.

* * *

 

She got her chance a week later.

Viddasala wanted a live prisoner from the army of Tevinter, someone important, a Bas Saarebas leader, who would be interrogated for information on the bas nation’s movements and magical practices.

Saarebas was sent into battle with a unit of the Ben-Hassrath with the express intent of finding and capturing such a subject.

But the thick of battle was a confusing place to be.  And very often, one found oneself separated from companions. 

Saarebas made sure of it.

It helped that the Bas Saarebas of Tevinter were just powerful enough to distract her Ben-Hassrath handlers.  It was not the usual role for spies, to be at the vanguard in a fight, and Saarebas took advantage of that.

She did not know where her rod was.  It did not matter.  Soon the trappings of a Saarebas would be gone, and then the rod would be useless. 

She fled through the carnage, the battle raging around her as she moved her way around the outskirts, through the trees to hide from bas and Qunari alike.  She did not know where she would go, but the sooner she got away from _there_ the better.

She made it to the surrounding woods not unscathed, but well enough to continue, to make her way to a port town, and without any of her handlers following her.

There were no cuffs about her wrists and no ropes around her arms.  The mask had been cast off.  The chains were broken.  It was a good start.

The path she took was no path at all; it wound its way through the jungle, and she was lucky that none found her. 

Against her will, she imagined that Arvaarad had been there, at that battle.  That he had seen her flee and let her go.  That he had whispered, _“nehraa kadan”_ to the wind as she fled, and prayed for her safety.

But to garner comfort from such thoughts would be to take solace in an illusion, and she would not be overtaken by desires for something that never existed.

She pressed on.

* * *

The nearest port town was not far from where she was.  Thankfully, the ships harbored in the port were still there as well.  She would not be stranded here.

However, Saarebas then found herself faced with a new problem: how to book passage aboard one of these ships.  She suspected that one of them was harboring smuggled goods, and so perhaps would smuggle her, but she was not simply fleeing Qunari looking to make their way south to escape the skirmishes; she was a Saarebas.  No ship captain in his right mind would take her on as passenger.

Then again, she had spent months as the slave of a spy who excelled in underhanded dealings when it was necessary to further an agenda. 

In the end, all it took was a subtle threat, a hint of danger, a smooth suggestion.  The mousiest of the captains saw the stitches in her mouth, the broken chains dangling about her shoulders, a controlled ball of fire in the palm of her hand (hidden from onlookers by her body, she was no fool), and had come to the conclusion himself.  All she had to do afterward was gesture to herself and then his ship.

“Fine, fine, just stay down with the cargo!”  _“Just don’t hurt me”_ went unsaid.

She had her ship.

* * *

Saarebas quickly learned that she did not like sea travel.

At least, not in the cargo hold of a smuggling ship. 

The journey was long, the waves were choppy, and no matter where she moved within the hold, she could never quite escape the feeling of the ship’s rocking. 

The one thing that eased the discomfort of the journey – or at least it distracted her somewhat from it – was listening to the people who spoke around her.  It wasn’t often that anyone was close enough to listen, but occasionally, a few bas sailors would venture down below to check on the cargo, and Saarebas would hide away and listen as they chattered.

She never understood what they were saying, but she found that she enjoyed the sounds they made nonetheless.  The difference from her own Qunlat fascinated her.

Even the captain sounded different when he descended to the cargo hold with one of his crewmembers, speaking rapidly in some language Saarebas had never heard before, instead of his broken smatterings of Qunlat.

Sometimes she would make the whole thing into a game to pass the time; she would remember certain phrases that she’d heard multiple times and go over them in her mind, trying to figure out where one word ended and another word began.  And then she would listen to the tones of their voices and try to figure out what the phrase meant.

It was certainly preferable to focusing on the nausea when it hit, roiling about in her stomach so that even the smallest of the meals the captain slipped her wouldn’t stay down.

All she could do now was wait.

* * *

When the ship arrived at a port late one afternoon just before the rain hit, Saarebas was hungry, weak, and confused.  She woke to a rough shove at her shoulder and reacted instinctively by grabbing for the offender and pulling them away.

“Hey, let go!”  It was the captain.  Saarebas forced open her eyes – crusty and unused from too much sleeping – and focused her gaze on him.  He glared. 

“Time to leave.”  Saarebas did not resist.  She was glad to be rid of him.  She went.

The only courtesy he paid her was to tell her the best places to avoid detection, before shooing her away and leaving her to fend for herself.

The port was a strange one, and Saarebas did not know its name, did not know where in Thedas they were.  She suspected Rivain by the smell of the spices in the air.  She had heard stories of this place as a child.

For a moment, she stood on the docks and looked around, curious and with nowhere to go. 

Bas milled about on the docks, some working, others simply passing through, others still just talking.  The language was foreign, and their manner of dress still more unusual.  Saarebas felt her differences from these people to the core of her being in that moment, and wanted to draw her hand up to cover her face. 

Some of the bas turned and stared at her.

Her stitches pressed against her lips in a way they hadn’t for the entirety of the voyage.  She could break them now, remove them from her body now that the rod was gone, now that there was no longer an Arvaarad to use it.  It would, at the very least, render her slightly less obvious.

She resisted.  There was a reason she had kept the bonds in her skin intact for so long.

She ducked her head and hurried away from the docks, her shoulders hunching forward in a familiar and – she hated to admit – comforting motion as she fled the port town.  The enormity of what she had done was catching up to her, the overwhelming fear of having _nothing_ clawing at her insistently, but she pushed it back with the discipline honed from years of devotion to the Qun.

Later.  She would worry about all those things—

_Food, water, shelter, money, **magic** — _

Later.

She refused to allow herself to move faster than the brisk stride she had assumed while leaving the docks.  She forced herself into a state of control, counted in her head, practiced her breathing. 

She would not be mastered by her fear.  And she had something she needed to do.

* * *

This place looked more like the mountains of Par Vollen than the jungles of Seheron.  And yet it was entirely foreign.

Saarebas stood alone in a land that wasn’t home, knife ready in her hand.  She felt the stitches in her lips, sitting snuggly where they always had been.  They had stopped paining her skin years ago. 

There was a small knot in the rope, she could feel it against her skin, which Arvaarad would untie in order to change it for a new one.  This was only ever done to avoid infection.

She would not use that method. 

Raising the knife to her lips, she guided the tip to the rope and cut.  The rope tightened, then snapped. 

Her lips twitched reflexively and she pulled in a slow breath, composing herself.

She gently placed the knife on the ground before her, straightened, and began to weave the rope through the holes in her skin.  One stitch at a time, the rope came out, and soon it was gone from her body completely. 

Saarebas held the rope – it really was little more than string, wasn’t it? – between her thumb and forefinger and stared at it.

This was the last rope Arvaarad had changed before he’d—

She dropped it to the ground.  This wasn’t over. 

There was a rope she had hidden in the folds of her clothes, taken from the ship as the knife had been.  She pulled it out and held it before her.  It wasn’t the rope of her people, sanctified by the priesthood.  It wasn’t the physical manifestation of the sacred bond between the Qun and its followers.  It was twine, used to tie crates and boxes together, and it was the thinnest rope she could find aboard that damned ship.

It would do.

She took the twine to her hair.  Slid it under to her scalp, pulled tight.  Over, then cross, then under, repeat.  When the binding of the rope was done, she stood straight, relishing the press and pull of it in her hair, against her skin.

Willing submission to the Qun, as she had always desired, but was never allowed.  Her choice to submit, to offer herself, and she would. 

Somewhere – _the tide ebbs and flows, rises and falls_ – those from whom she descended looked on her devotion with pride.  For she had mastery of herself, and still she chose to serve, and that meant more than any coercion she suffered in Par Vollen or Seheron.

Standing in this strange new land that would have to be home, path clear before her in a way it had never been before, body and soul strong in the conviction of her mind, Saarebas breathed in deep, opened her mouth wide, and screamed. 

The beauty of it was, now she _could._


End file.
